


beauty and madness

by allsovacant



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, BAMF John Watson, Character Death (not JOHNLOCK —this is an achievement), Completed! Yay!, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First work to be completed I'm crying, Forced Sexual Foreplay, Graphic description of torture, Hopeful Ending, Hurt!Sherlock, Love Confessions, M/M, PTSD Sherlock, Pain, Post-Reichenbach, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Prompt Fic, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-23
Updated: 2018-11-17
Packaged: 2019-08-06 06:08:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 21,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16382783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allsovacant/pseuds/allsovacant
Summary: For almost two years since Sherlockdied, John tried to move on and live his monotonous life—until one call fromMycroftchangeseverything.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SherKat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SherKat/gifts).



> The [prompt](http://i.imgur.com/zThVoHL.jpg) is from SherKat. Half of it will also serve as the summary of this work. More or less. If I could keep up with that.  
> 
> The title came from the 1987 Fra Lippo Lippi studio album 'Light and Shade', whereas 'Beauty and Madness' was the fourth track of the album. 
> 
> _—unbeta'ed for the love of mistakes—_

_A tall silhouette of a shadow._  
_A whisper from a deep baritone voice._  
_The rough pavement decorated with blood—cold smooth skin. Faint_ _pulse against his fingers._

_Thrumming slow, weak, and then nothing._

The distant sound of something ringing pulled John from the depths of his alcohol-induced sleep.

He opened his eyes slowly to the familiar bedsit, familiar darkness and the familiar tightening of his chest. He drew a deep breath as he grabbed his phone from the bedside table, squinting his eyes to see the time; three thirty-four ante-meridiem.  
He closed his eyes, swallowing a lump on his throat and checked his ringing phone again— It was an unknown number.  
Funny how his thoughts fell to that person who used to call him at this hour of the morning.

_'John, wake up. I have a question.'_

_'Case, John!'_

_'John, come down for a minute. I need theories about the decaying time of—_

SHUT UP. SHUT THE BLOODY HELL UP! _YOU'RE DEAD._

_'Goodbye, John.'_

And for God knows how many times since Sherlock's Fall, John willed himself not to cry. He pushed the end call button, successfully convincing himself that he didn't even care who was the caller.

At seven-thirty, John was awakened by the same ringing of his phone just above his head. Only on that moment, it was his alarm. He got up, while the same list of his monotonous routine everyday ran inside his head:

-Yawn  
-Rub his eyes  
-Make his bed  
-Bathroom /Gargle/Shower/Shave/Do his thing  
-Work clothes on  
-Make tea and toast for breakfast  
-Wash the dishes  
-Lock the door  
-Go to work  
-Go to the pub after work / Drink. Drink. Drink. Drink. Drink.  
-Go home.  
-Sleep, or at least try.

Only as he got up after turning off his alarm, his phone rang again. This time, John recognized the old number.

It was _Mycroft_.

Mycroft Holmes, he haven't heard from the man since ...  
— _since the lowering of the mahogany coloured casket on the Hartswood's Cemetery ground—since a black marble headstone was placed over the fresh soil and bermuda grass—since he placed the white lilies to the vase that Mrs. Hudson provided. She said Sh—his bestfriend would've scoffed at the sentimentality, if he was still—and John refused to hear the words after that. The old woman beside him cried at his shoulder that rainy afternoon. But John didn't. He cried afterwards, when no one was with him. He cried in the company of his best friend's armchair, clutching a piece of Sherlock in the form of his beloved Belstaff—imagining the things he never knew existed in the depths of his mind. In the deepest parts of his soul. The countless 'what-if's' that ate his whole being._

It took John six months to realise that he himself was still alive. The memories were still fresh as the pain inside his chest. Still pooling there for almost two years and just waiting for the day when he could finally rely on the judgement of the cold metal handle of his SIG. He was angry at Mycroft. No. Scratch that. He _remained_ angry at Mycroft. On cue, John remembered his parting words to the man in front of Sherlock's graveyard. He felt soaked in anger just as his clothes from the afternoon rain. He threw the words on Mycroft's face without guilt, without regret. And the man's blank facial expression helped him from channeling the pain out of his system.

_'Seriously, what—What kind of brother are you?! You didn't even—you didn't even do anything to SAVE his life! You didn't even DO SOMETHING TO STOP HIM FROM—'_

He remembered the taste of blood as it trickled from his lips. His upper teeth buried over his lower lip. He couldn't care less. And he didn't cared what Mycroft had to say. Mycroft was fucking too late. So before the man could say anything, he turned his back and walked away. No, he didn't looked back. Because at that moment he knew Mycroft's looking at him like how Sherlock would. And he just couldn't take it, to be a witness to that. The moment Mycroft Holmes...  _feel_.

And now after _almost_ two years of not talking and texting to each other (not that they already did those things before), John composed himself while thinking of the words to say to the man on the other line. He pushed the green button, put the call on loud speaker and soon enough, Mycroft's voice echoed on the barely lit bedroom breaking the defeaning silence.

Of all the words Mycroft could've said though—it could be anything bordering between guilt and regret and apologies. But it wasn't anything like it.

"John. I am in desperately need of your help."

•••••

  
Mycroft ended the call when he was satisfied on John's answer about the idea of helping him out in a mission. He tried not to reveal everything about the help he needed. What he just need at the moment was John's reassurance on showing up to a discussion meeting in relation to the case. To be honest, he could just kidnap John just like before. But the circumstances surrounding the new developments of the retrieval mission he organized with SAS and Mi6 wouldn't allow him to do that. He knew, the rest of Moriarty's network are still aware of the existence of Dr. John Watson, Mrs. Hudson and DI Lestrade. He didn't want to take second chances. Although he had the snipers taken care of before he still couldn't let their guard down. So until his brother comes back, he wouldn't be able to make sure that everyone's safe already. But he _made_ a promise. And for almost two years, he's still keeping it.

_'Keep them safe, Mycroft. Keep **him** safe. That's all I ask in exchanged for all of this. You can keep your prescriptions.'_

He picked up the envelope and took out the black and white photos inside it. It was a set of five photos, drone shots from the topmost window of what he has learned as an abandoned sugar factory in Belgrade. A lithe figure of a man, slumped on his knees, chained, wrists adorned with rusting clamps. His now shoulder length curls covering his bloodied face. Cuts are visible on the man's legs, an alarming number of punctured wounds on the chest—nail gun, definitely. Mycroft shook his head and covered the photos with his file folder. He took his laptop and opened the sole video file on his desktop.

The twenty minutes and thirty seconds video file plays. The camera flies and hides on a lamp post when a bulky man appears near the window holding a long range gun. Due to the camera's position, the only visible part of the figure chained was his knees.

_*muffled Serbian language on the background*_

Mycroft understood Serbian fluently and judging by the questions being asked on what he have learned—the figure that was his brother, not much time was left. The men was clearly grilling his brother for informations about the Secret Service and the National Defence. Mycroft gritted his teeth when his brother was given a blow to the head of one of the terrorists. The interrogation went on for a good fifteen minutes. Just then a firm voice shouted out of nowhere and the men circled around the figure. A man wearing an all-black outfit and a black leather jacket, with a cigarette on his fingers walked on the camera's view. He was about the same height as his brother. His hair, raven black, shoulder length, tied together as what Mycroft had deduced. It gave the man a picture of a true blooded criminal, in his own opinion. In the form of Sebastian Moran. Little was known about the man. He was said to be Moriarty's second in command. Even surveillance photos wasn't any good and when he first saw the clip, it was also the first time where he had the good view—well, _almost_. The moment the man appeared on the camera's view, the recording footage became blurred–sound and video, preventing whoever would get hold of the footage to recognize him. But Mycroft could have recognized him anywhere.

 _"Добро вече, г. Холмес."_  
("Good evening, Mr. Holmes.")

The man's voice was deep and sultry despite of the cracking audio. Mycroft's eyes strained to see what was happening on the static-filled video. The man leaned on one of the posts where Sherlock's wrist was clamped—took a hit of his cigarette, and released the smoke towards Sherlock's limp head.

When Mycroft first saw the clip, the next thing that happened made him froze from where he was standing. The man turned to where the camera was hiding and smiled. He bowed gracefully, waving a hand in the air and resting them to his stomach. A mocked version of the gesture of respect.

_"It's been a pleasure to be accompanied by your handsome brother's dying presence."_

The voice full of malice remark earned a series of rumbles of laughs around the man.

Moran walked back to Sherlock, pulling up the blood drenched curls. Mycroft saw Sherlock's nose, caked with dried blood. Lips bruised, cheeks decorated with scalpel cuts—unrecognizable.

_"But I'm afraid I won't be needing even his dying presence anymore." Moran murmured on Sherlock's ears._

Then Moran looked up at the camera again—to _him_.

_"I'm giving you three weeks to try and save your brother, Mycroft—"_

Mycroft closed his eyes as the soft sound of his name coming out of that murderer's lips made him cringed. An onslaught of unwelcomed memories attacked his whole being. A brief acquaintance that both parties faked. One unforgettable mistake that he regret. Emotionally and physically. The _only_ time he surrendered to his _emotions_. And Mycroft successfully willed himself on stopping them. If only he could _stop_ the man as well.

 _"You should be grateful. But at the moment—"_  
Moran exclaimed as he turned his attention on the men around him, before lowering his voice in a murmur.

_"да га да крвари."  
("Make him bleed.")_

Then once again his chilly gaze meets Mycroft's on the camera's view for the last time. He gave an icy smile while he pull something out of his jacket. It looked like a red button, and when he clicked it, the footage ended.

The camera was safe and sitting on his table delivered exclusively to him a week ago with no return address. He made the Mi6 check the cam for informations and based on what they have gathered. The camera was their own and went missing the same time the video was recorded a week ago. So he only have two weeks left then. No. Not just him. He can't do this alone. He had almost admitted defeat, the moment he lost contact with Sherlock. He couldn't bear it if he would fail again this time.

He closed his laptop and opened the drawer of his table. He pulled out a photo under the various documents and folders inside it. It was of Sherlock and John, smiling at each other after their first successful solved case together. Right then and there, Mycroft knew, his brother's life has _changed_.

"I have done everything I can, Sherlock—for that promise to remain unbroken. But right now, I need it into pieces—to _save_ you." 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

Eight-thirty of that evening, John found himself walking the remaining distance to the warehouse Mycroft asked him to go. Talk about familiarities, it was the same warehouse where he was taken by Mycroft to be interrogated and bribed. John almost laughed later on at the idea that Sherlock got Mycroft constantly worried of his brother that the latter concluded to a solution of paying the closest person to be acquainted with Sherlock just to know his whereabouts, or what he was doing. The same night he was dragged into a hurricane that was Sherlock Holmes. John momentarily forgot the gnawing pain inside his chest which was replaced by the clawing excitement and adrenaline rush that had saved his life that day. And still he's being thankful about it. If he could turn back the time, he would gladly relive one moment from that night—when Sherlock looked directly at him; stormy green-grey eyes widening, pale lips parted, curls disheveled. He looked unfairly beautiful despite of having a shock blanket draped around his shoulders. He met Sherlock's gaze and he knew right there and then that the madman had arrived to a somewhat can be called ridiculous conclusion of his own deduction. That John Watson had saved Sherlock Holmes' life.

John heaved a sigh as he neared the building. The lamp posts situated on both corner made the building's position hidden in the darkness. It looked the same as it was as he got at the corner. Rusty, lights out, ready to be demolished and still has that 'No Trespassing' — 'Government Property' sign.

Just as he was about to pass at the steel gates, a gloved hand suddenly grabs the back of his neck while a hard blow made contact on his temple. It almost made him lose consciousness if not for his arms that he had thrown immediately in front of him to deflect the blow.

John's instincts from the army has been awaken once again. It flowed through every single part of his body and made him aware of his surrounding. When strong arms grabbed him from behind, John's left elbow jerked behind in instinct on the chest of his attacker and the body propelled to the darkened wall with a thud. He kicked his feet on the knees of his attacker and it growled in pain. Before it could follow up John grabbed the hooded figure on the arm and twisted it on his back. The black hoodie fell off his attacker's head to reveal a blonde Brit that John thought was almost half of his age.

"Bloody hell! That was—"  
The man howled as John twisted the arm that was still locked under his armpit.

John huffed a breath, "WHO—sent you?!"

"N-No one! Ouc—fuck–"

"I swear–I am a doctor and mark my word. Your arm will be of no use for the next six months if you continue to lie. Now, AGAIN—WHO HAVE SENT YOU?"

The man squirmed and whimpered behind him as a movement from the corner of his eye made him aware that someone was watching them. True enough, a man's voice sounded from the shadows.

"I think that would be enough, Captain Watson,"

At the sound of his former rank, John turned his head at the culprit. It was Mycroft. Obviously. He cursed under his breath and spat on the ground as he let go of the arm he was still holding. The blonde guy in a hoodie slumped on the floor, wiping a blood that trickled down his chin.

John gritted his teeth and gave the man a hard gaze, "Mycroft. I could have killed him."

"No, you wouldn't." Mycroft said calmly. "The only reason you are still standing was because I didn't asked him to use his own tools. One that was called a tranquilizer."

He was about to speak again when the blondie guy cut him into it.

"For the love of God, Alpha—what you told me about this man–" Blondie jerked a finger on him, "–is an understatement."

John watched as Mycroft squinted his eyes on the figure behind him.

"Of course, Fox. I told you he's a former soldier and a good one."

"Yea right. What you didn't told me was, he's a bloody-good-SAS-worth of a soldier. He'll probably deflect my tranqs as well if I used it."

Mycroft only raised an eyebrow. The Blondie that was called Fox stood up and offered the uninjured hand on him.

"Code name Fox. And call me F, at all times, Sir. Active at SAS since 2005. Pleased to meet you, Captain Watson."

Fox whispered to him. But John only looked at the outstretched hand. He didn't took it instead he turned his hard gaze to Mycroft once again.

"Is this the appointment you're talking about? The help you are in desperately need of? Asking me to enter SAS and work for you?" John asked through gritted teeth. Because if Mycroft asked him this question before Sherlock had engaged into a gamble of life with Moriarty, he could've prevented what had happened. Somehow, through MI6 and SAS. He could've hunted Moriarty himself.

Fox steps forward and tries to intervene. "Sir, with all due respect. Alpha is—"

"SHUT UP. I'm not talking to you." John snapped.

Mycroft held his gaze before glancing at Fox and back at him again. Hands pressed together on the handle of that stupid umbrella. Nothing has changed.

"More or less, Doctor. But what I am to ask of you is certainly of more importance than doing a work for me. Shall we get inside to meet the others?"

And Mycroft, bloody Mycroft walked towards the steel gates without even waiting for his reply.

Feeling a bit guilty for the man behind him, he offered an arm for balance and the man gratefully accepted it as they followed Mycroft inside the building.

•••••

The lower ground, surprisingly, looked even more accomodating than before. Two men conversing in low voices are standing side by side over a steel table filled with various types of papers and folders. When Fox whistled beside him, the men looked at them. The one whose face are full of freckles mockingly laughed.

"What the hell, Fox? What happened to you? You motherfucker—why are you limping?" Freckled-guy asked, in between laughs.

"Well, this is our life. Isn't it? Show yourself the moves then get beaten up. I'm really going to transfer myself at the cybercrime division."

Freckled-guy laughed once again while the other who wears a hoodie also nodded at John.

"Not bad, Captain." New Hoodie-guy said, approvingly, "Fox' is one of our bests."

Mycroft cleared his throat to get their attention.

"Gentlemen, I would like you to meet, Doctor John Watson. As all of you already have known by now, from the dossier. He's a former soldier—ranked Captain. Honorably discharged of service as he was invalided in Afghanistan while attending to a number of wounded soldiers in the warfield. And not long after he was discharged, he became acquainted with Sherlock Holmes. To make the story short, he has become my brother's assistant, doctor—name it, eventually he became his best friend. But I'd say, close to a helpmate."

The last remark earned a snicker from the agents. John felt his body stiffen and his cheeks flushed at Mycroft's introduction. Was that really necessary? To mention his acquaintance with Sherlock? Mycroft could've just let a bloody dossier tell everything about him.

"And John, these are Agent's N, L and the one you have encountered, F."

He nodded at the men.

"The documents I am to give you will inform you enough with the basic information about our _package_."

Again John glanced sideways at the three men standing on their ground, eyes focused up front.

"You still don't trust your own secret service?" He murmured as he turned to Mycroft.

The man faked a smile, head held high, and stared at him.  
"It is inevitable this time, to give them the trust you are talking about, John. As I am in need of all the help I can get." Mycroft said. He gazed at the watch on his wrist quickly before going back at him. "I have to admit though that I have only borrowed their services, and that they don't fully answer to me. That's why I need you and trust you enough for this mission to be a success. And that's all that matters. I have included an additional folder. It contains some informations about the place we are headed. Read them before you sleep tonight, John."

Mycroft clicked his tongue and then looked around them as if thinking of what he had missed to include. "The rest of the details will be forwarded later by my assistant via text message. That would be all, gentlemen. I'm afraid my presence is needed in another place in relation to our mission. A car is waiting outside to take you back to your flat, John."

John gave Mycroft a terse nod. He's not really in the mood anymore to talk about the things that was bothering his mind. Not to mention the tons of questions. Mycroft had already been gone when the agents gathered their files on the table and nodded at him as well and walked towards the back exit.

"See ya tomorrow, Captain." Fox winked at him while N waved. The two had already reached the exit when John remembered that he should've apologise to Fox. He thought of just doing it tomorrow morning. And once more he was alone. He then decided to stay for a while as he browsed at the file folder Mycroft had given him. It was not until a minute had passed when he felt someone's eyes on him. He looked up on its source and found L, the hoodie guy staring at him.

"You're still here? Is ... something ... wrong?"

"Nothing, Captain." L said with a shrug. "I was just going to tell you not to trust Alpha so much. He just ... usually mess things up and order other people to do the cleaning for him."

And then L chuckled. His voice as light as if he just said a joke. John dismissed the thought and nodded at the man. "Yeah. I've figured that out. Thanks."

He watched L anxiously as the agent gave him a salute and stepped into the darkness. What mess has Mycroft got himself into this time?

•••••

The next morning came and John woke up on the same ringing of his alarm. For the first time after Sherlock's fall, he didn't have a nightmare.

_____

Wilhelmhold's Airstrip, is a former ricefield turned into a private tarmac.

  
In the middle of the wide field a dark-green makeshift military tent situated under a one hundred and eighty seater passenger plane was fighting the strong winds in the area. Inside, John tried his best to focus on the mission at hand over a mug of coffee and a tin of baked cookies. God how he missed to eat Thai takeaway already. He wasn't able to eat nor sleep last night. All he could think of are the numbers, names, places, streets that he have memorised the whole night just to familiarize himself once again on being thrown into a mission. Just like the old days. But unlike the mere seconds he had to assign commands before, he have an hour to brief the team before him and they are set to board the private aeroplane that will take them to one of Serbia's British owned private airport. That would happen if Mycroft was here already. But the man's last text message was still the words 'On my way. -MH' and that was almost half an hour ago.

When John learned that Serbia was the place where the agent was abducted and tortured, he immediately had second thoughts about this mission. Because the rebels and the terrorists in that country are as dirty as Afghanistan's talibans.

Serbia is one of the most dangerous places to deal with in terms of war, terrorisms, spies, and treachery. They're all there. In 2011, SAS and MI6 uncovered the treachery of two Brit-Serbian spies from SIS Belgrade intelligence unit. They were discovered conniving with the terrorist group ISIS. Classified informations about weaponry and the national defence were leaked. As a former soldier of the British Army, under SAS, the news scattered like wild fire, reaching even those who were dismissed in duty and wounded in action just like John.

When Mycroft arrived, John had no choice but to explain his strategy, once again to their main man.

"The uh... the plan I thought of was actually basic since the Yraztoza Sugar Mill isn't a complicated building to navigate into." John started while eyeing the agents around the table and pointing at the blueprint of the sugar factory spread-eagled into the table. " _I.N.K.—Investigate, Navigate, Keep_ yourselves out of sight of the enemy until we have retrieved the package. Shoot and cover. Keep the enemy out of the spot where me and Mycroft—sorry Alpha will be as we search for—" John rummaged quickly for the red folder beneath the map of Belgrade. He opened it and said the name scrawled in black, all caps writing. "—Agent _William_. I'll radio for an additional protection once we have retrieved him."

"Precisely." Mycroft said as he smiled approvingly to him, before turning then to the three men across the table.

"Agents, you have your own orders. Disperse and execute."

The three stood up and gave him and Mycroft a salute.

Being honest to himself, John has a lot of questions, yes. One would be, who is this agent that they are risking their lives for. Five men, one BritGov official, one ex-army doctor, and three SAS agents? With no question that MI6 was also the one helping them with informations. John thought this person as Mycroft had identified to him, was of 'importance'; Agent William could only be someone related to the Queen. Perhaps a secret heir to the throne, abducted in exchange for hundreds of years of secrets? Or perhaps someone who knows how to bend the monarchs to their knees if these secrets goes to the hands of the enemies. He's no detective nor a genius like Sherlock. But one thing is for certain. He had to know the answers before he cleans another person's mess once again.

Dressed in an all black intelligence uniform, the plane carrying five men lifted off. And John prayed to anyone who listens that the plane would arrive in one piece instead of being shoot out off the enemy sky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SAS — The Special Air Service (SAS) is a special forces unit of the British Army. The SAS was founded in 1941 as a regiment, and later reconstituted as a corps in 1950. The unit undertakes a number of roles including covert reconnaissance, counter-terrorism, direct action and hostage rescue. Much of the information and actions regarding the SAS is highly classified, and is not commented on by the British government or the Ministry of Defence due to the sensitivity of their operations.
> 
> SIS — The Secret Intelligence Service (SIS), commonly known as MI6, is the foreign intelligence service of the government of the United Kingdom, tasked mainly with the covert overseas collection and analysis of human intelligence (HUMINT) in support of the UK's national security. SIS is a member of the country's intelligence community and its Chief is accountable to the country's Foreign Secretary. 
> 
> Source: Wikipedia
> 
> —For someone who loves watching action films especially James Bond. This work is such a treat and a challenge for me. The moment I did a researched about MI6 and SAS, I got hooked myself. Hopefully, you guys as well. Their history was such a good read!
> 
> — Also the 2011 Brit-Serbian incident did happened. Although I've changed that thing a bit for the sake of fiction. The spies were actually Brit-Afghans. 
> 
> —The places on this work are all fiction, such as the name of the airstrip, the sugar factory, the warehouse. Aside from Belgrade and the Republic Square. These two are real. 
> 
> Thanks for reading! On to the next chapter!


	3. Chapter 3

John didn't want to think how were they able to fly unnoticed above the enemy territory. But of course, Mycroft had that covered already. The aeroplane landed at a private tarmac previously owned by a Serbian government official. He learned from Mycroft that it was sold to the British government to serve as passage if the military defence of United Kingdom deploys new units in the country.

After their escape route has been meticulously planned, John was urged by Mycroft to a rented hotel in the Republic Square. To where he would kill the hours before their deployment. When John settled himself on one of the bedrooms, he opened the window and breathe in the night air. He used a binocular to get a good view of the sugar factory amongst the many buildings from a distance where he was standing by the window. Afterwards his gaze bored to the moon. It was exceptionally bright and silvery reminding him of someone's eyes. John bit back the way his thoughts are going once again. He is needed for this mission to be a success therefore he needed his mind to be clear. It is not the time to dwell on past thoughts that would only offer regret.

•••••

Mycroft was pacing the room when the intelligence report from SIS Belgrade came at midnight. The report says that the entrance would be clear for the next three hours. A shipment of contraband weapons are scheduled to arrive by port at the same hours allowing them to proceed on the retrieval. That meant half of the one hundred and forty rebels would be kept occupied and out of their base. The other details to Mycroft's relief was about the hostage. Photographs in black and white. The man was still chained and slumped on the bloodied floor. Mycroft swore mentally to make every single one of those bastards in the video pay for what they have done to his brother. No time should be wasted which brings him in front of John's door knocking in morse code. After two minutes, the door opens to reveal John Watson, in all black, leather jacket on and a duffle bag on his shoulder. He nodded at John who returned it politely. John locked his door and Mycroft watched the man walked ahead of him. The almost unnoticeable bulk on John's waistband was none other than the man's Sig Sauer. The gun that has saved Sherlock's life countless times. And tonight would be an addition if they'll make it through.

The meet-up place is just two corners away from the Yraztoza Sugar Mill. He drove the Jeep and parked under a shadowy shade of trees hidden from prying eyes. Distant howls of coyotes echoed through the moonlit night and Mycroft thought for a moment that he was back on the days where he was an MI6 agent himself. He risked his life to gather intelligence. And Sherlock was aware of every single mission he went on but that didn't mean he was telling it himself. His brother has his own ways of knowing his whereabouts surprisingly. That he even got scared for him, but never for himself.

He and John moved quietly behind as they approach the factory. His agents remain a good distance away from them upfront. He stops John on his tracks extending an arm sideways. He cocked his gun glancing at John to do the same. F glanced behind them and signaled to the left. He nodded and John walked past him offering protection as they went to where F pointed. No one was around and they easily got inside the gates situated at the far left of the factory. Mycroft grunted as his knees buckled down after jumping over the fence.

John looked at him with amusement.

  
"I'm not that young anymore, Doctor Watson." He quipped which made the good doctor suppress a laugh.

Just as they were almost near the side entrance of the factory, gunshots rang in the air making them broke into a run.

A rustling of shoes running towards them made him push John on the other side. Someone from the guards must've seen him for the next round of gunshots were directed at him. He was about to fire back when as he stepped a foot on the clearing, a numbing pain started on his left leg making him backed off to hide again.

_Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!_

He closed his eyes as he hears John mutter a curse not away from him.

"Mycroft!" John hissed at him and then he feels a hard press of cloth on his bleeding leg.

"I'm fine, John. Go. Leave me." He breathes.

"Hell no, I'm not leaving you when I still can do something."

He felt John rummaging on his side, pulling out a med kit. He felt the scissors cut through the fabric amidst the gunshots outside. Then John was pulling out a bullet out of his fresh wound. His consciousness betrays him for a minute but the second he does so, a warm palm caresses his forehead and his eyes fluttered open. He find the fleeting touch comforting and so familiar but he didn't dwell in it. It was a very long time ago. Carefully and precisely, John's rough hands stitched back the open skin of his leg and dabbed an antiseptic and wrapped it clean. The next moment, he felt a length of needle by his arm and he immediately felt numb. He grunted the word thanks, but he doubt that his words were understandable from a bit of blood loss.

Thankfully, John let him nap for a bit that only an explosion can shook him awake.

And it did.

•••••

The explosion came out of nowhere, but John has the blueprint of the sugar factory inside his mind. It came from the second floor where it was supposed to be empty at this hour, except for two or three guards that are assigned to their captive. He glanced at Mycroft who's head is now covered with dust.

"S-Second floor?"  
Mycroft asked him, wincing slightly as the man shifted on his seat.

He nodded, before checking the man's wound. "Don't move. Your wound will open. It was only held by primary stitches, mind you."

"I feel marvelous John,"

"Yeah, I guess you would. That's morphine talking."

He cocked his gun once again when he heard footsteps coming down from the stairs.

"I'll check those out. You stay here for a bit. Alright?"

The man blinked at him with weary eyes before answering, "Yes, doctor."

"Good."

Then he stood up and head straight under the stairs.

The first feet showed up on his eye level. John grabbed it sending the man toppling below with a broken neck. The move earned gunshots as John ducked down while aiming his gun above. The shooting faded and immediately he took the stairs up. Cement rubbles, plywood strips and burned metals welcomed John. He sneaked a look from stall to stall to find the place where the agent was chained but fails. Just as he was about to round the stairs to the third floor, a hard blow made contact at the back of his neck making him crumple to the floor. But before he loses consciousness, he sees Mycroft firing a shot at his attacker as the world fades to black.

John woke up at the continuous tugging at his arm. When he opened his eyes, he finds N smiling down on him and F standing behind N. When the former gazes down on him, he offers a friendly smile.

"Alright, doc?" F asked him.

"Yeah, a bit disoriented but alright."

F hums in response.

"Where you two have been?" John asks.

"Securing the front and then the back, sir."

"Time?"

"We have an hour and a half left, John." N answers for F.

"Right. Where's Mycroft?"

"Just here."

They all turned and found Mycroft limping towards them. Their eyes connected and John remembered he had to thank Mycroft for saving his life earlier.

"Err ... Mycroft ... Earlier—I just want to ... when you—"

John isn't able to finish what he's going to say as they heard loud voices from outside and the roaring of trucks.

"Shit. They're here, Alpha." N murmured.

"Scatter agents."

With a nod, the two agents went separate ways and Mycroft leaned down to grasp his arms.

"John I've got the location of William, let's go."

"Yeah alright." John nodded, before Mycroft could turn, he grabbed at his arm. "Thankyouearlier." He said in a rush.

Mycroft looked at him eyes narrowed. "It was nothing compared to what you have done for my brother, John. But I will accept that politely. And you are welcome."

John smiled thoughtfully. If only Mycroft knows, John was already dead when he arrived back from Afghanistan. A ghostly presence wandering in London. But when he met Sherlock, it's as if his spirit was dragged back into his body and that's when he felt living again in all those years until the Fall.

•••••

He and John turned from one corner to another until they have found the red metal door where Sherlock was supposed to be. Mycroft had seen that door on the video when he watched the file again before their plane for Serbia left. He wasn't able to focus on the other details on the clip for his whole mind was directed on the man slumped on the floor and the man talking at the camera.

"Are you sure Agent William's here?"  
John asks him, derailing his thoughts.

"I'm sure of it. We just have to find the key to—"

He wasn't able to finish when John suddenly kicks the door open. The rusty hinges fell so as the door.

"Oh. The rust ..." Mycroft breathes towards John. Some parts of the place was delapitated enough to be easily opened with brute force.

Gun raised on shoulder level, John winks at him before going inside.

He was about to drop a remark when his eyes finds him.

He gasped hard that earned a solemn look from John. But he didn't looked back. Mycroft's knees buckled making him kneel to the floor as he felt the ground beneath him crumbled by seeing the state of his brother's body.

•••••

Now _that_ is a development.

John has now a solid hunch that this William is Mycroft's _lover_. Possible. He dismissed the thought of sentiment when it comes to Mycroft but the man wouldn't react this way if this agent wasn't of significance to him. Even Mycroft's own brother Sherlock hadn't produced this reaction from the man when the former almost swallowed a pill that could've ended his life. If not for John's bullet that was faster than Sherlock's fingers a nanosecond. Or the fact that Sherlock dealt with a group of smugglers from Asia. Had a run with one of the most wanted criminal from Russia nor when Sherlock almost got shot by snipers the first time Jim Moriarty showed his face.

No. Never.

But that reaction was so very familiar to him. Deep down to the bones. Because it has happened to him. He mourned for the loss of someone he never had the chance to express how significant that person was to him. And John would understand if Mycroft would keep this as a secret. He just thought ... Mycroft should've done something like this. What they are doing when it was Sherlock's life on the line as well.

"John! Quickly!"

Mycroft's call sounded out loud over the gunshots that are now getting closer to their spot. He ran towards the slumped figure on the floor willing himself not to vomit at the sight of the fallen agent.

William's head was slumped to his chest. His raven black hair tangled and unruly as if wire against John's fingers. Half of his face was caked in dried crimson blood. John carefully slid his fingers on the pulse point of William's neck. He singled out the faint sound of the agent's pulse amidst ear-splitting explosions and continuous gunshots outside.

"Pulse, faint. Heartbeat, slow ..." John murmured to himself as he observed the man. As he tilted William's face upward he couldn't help but flinch. Cheeks and eyelids swelling—both eyebrows shaved carelessly and had cuts in them. Previous scar lines are even visible above the forehead. He inspected even the ears. There are soft lumps behind them that could've been caused by hypothermia or electrocution. The man must've been tortured for months. John swallowed as he pried open William's eyes that were shut tight, carefully not to damage any vein inside. John shook his head, even the man's eyes ... It felt familiar ... Its iris, cornea ... But somehow his mind remained unfocused to that familiarity. But only to the fact in front of him. The man was brutally tortured making him unrecognizable.

"Is he ... J-John..."

Leaving the fragile state of his patient, his head snapped at the sound of Mycroft's pleading voice. Mycroft sounded so small and frightened, whole body trembling. Both hands shaking, gripping hard on his knees. The man hasn't moved behind him. Piercing gaze never leaving the agent's broken form.

"He's ... still with us, Mycroft. He's just unconscious from a fucking blow in the head." He whispered on gritted teeth. "But we have to get him out of here immediately. These wounds ..."

He gestured at William's torso that was decorated by punctured holes caused by a nailgun. Some are dried while some are still fresh holes. His gaze drops on the man's lower body. Legs have wounds that are cut without coordination. There are also fingermarks on the hips. John cursed inwardly having imagined the other idea of torture this man got. The bastards definitely pleasured themselves while they could still bend the agent could still stand. John tried not to think of the injuries inside William.

Suddenly, Mycroft was in front of them. He watched as the man carefully held William's hand and examined the pale long fingers. Once again, John's vision became obscured of what could be described as a roll of a film. The black and white blurry figure of a tall shadow, of a hand holding a bow, delicately caressing the strings of a violin—producing a sound that was intimately played for him to calm him from the onslaught of nightmares.

John had to bit his lower lip, to stop the tears from forming in his eyes. He looked away from the figures of Mycroft and William and instead fumbled on his duffle bag. He have to radio their position to the other agents. He have to check on them. He have to focus.

Focus, Watson or William wouldn't live.

He closed his eyes for a while and draws a deep breath to calm his mind.

You can't fail, the second time around.

•••••

Somehow the gunshots faded outside and it made Mycroft even more aware of the fading pulse of Sherlock. But still he remained on his knees. He knew he should be the one picking up the radio and sending the code for their escape. But he couldn't let go of his brother's hand. No. He can't. Sherlock was so cold beneath his fingertips. His fingers were so soft and limped and bloodied. The mortal peril that he wanted to execute on those men who had tortured his brother has doubled. Now that he could see in person, what the bastards had done to his brother. He will make sure the grandest punishments would be executed and he will make sure they would pay. His body trembled as a gust of chilly wind blew from the open windows and filled the room. Shrugging off his jacket, he carefully covered Sherlock's back with it.

Now where to start? He couldn't focus when he could feel Sherlock slipping away. When all he could think of was the guilt of sending his brother out here just to appease the orders of the higher council? The orders to eliminate Moriarty's network of vile men. And his brother almost succeeded if not for the ghost from his past returning. Now he was torned between 'fucked all his responsibility to his country' and 'my own brother needs me'. But dear God, how thankful he is that John told him there's still a chance to save his brother. All he have to do is move. And he need John to help him. Because in his state, Mycroft could tell that he was emotionally compromised and that right now, he just wanted to be Sherlock's brother.

•••••

As soon as John got hold of the radio, he punched buttons, turned dials and soon it went to life. John immediately barked orders of surveillance on the exit. N answered that they were free to go. He then confirmed that he and Mycroft are with the package and was ready to move in five minutes. N breath a sigh of relief when John told the package was still alive but winced when he told him about the agent's condition. A clatter of gunshots being fired from the background made the rest of the conversation difficult to understand. John turned the radio off and put it back inside his bag. He pulled out next the various types of clips, wires, pins and pliers from his bag and worked carefully on removing William's chains.

To John's relief, Mycroft must have seen what he was trying to do and offered a helping hand on the two clamps of chains from William's hands.

No one said a word. The only sound that could be heard are the distant continuous gunshots outside. And in that moment, John was anxiously giving glances at the door for anything that could show itself. A gun, a grenade, a frightening number of their enemies or the lurking feeling that the place would collapse from explosion whether they succeeded or not.

Bringing the place down was part of the last of the strategic plan. It wasn't much elaborated for it was a last minute addition that came from the higher council which made John's eyebrows rose. A direct order? John dismissed the thought of there could be any unusual thing about that. He knew the various security orgs are receiving direct orders. Mycroft even said that the agents doesn't answer to him. So whether they are gone on the place or still stucked firing at the enemies, if they fail to show up on the ordered time—the explosion would still happen. They have to hurry.

The last of the chains snapped making William's body fell forward. John was there immediately circling his right arm on the agent's torso. He pulled him closer as Mycroft, now, pulled an orange blanket out of his duffle bag. John narrowed his eyes.

"Seriously? Mycroft? The Shock blanket?" He asked, and for the length of their mission that was full of gore he could feel himself grinning.

"What?" Mycroft asked him confused.

John shook his head at the light turn of events for a second.

A certain memory, again.

He took William's right arm and draped it over his shoulder.

"Gun still loaded?"

"Yes, doctor." Mycroft replied. "I still have three left."

"Right. Listen, shoot and cover. You can do this."

"Of course, doctor. My marksmanship score are much high—"

"Yeah, yeah—I've no doubt about that. But what I doubt are your emotions right now. So I'm just trying to reassure you, you know?"

"What about—?"

John spared a glance at the man slumped on his side. And Mycroft seemed to have get it, for his eyes became solemn.

"Oh. I see. Thank you, John."

John nodded, "Right. Let's get out of here."

And the two of them walked towards the exit to the vehicle they hid, still dragging the unconscious William.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are quite a lot of Italics but my eyes and my fingers are tired—squinting and typing furiously on my phone. I'm quite not feeling well to be honest. Cough and cold for two days now. Ugh. Damn it. Still, I appreciate your thoughts immensely. ;)


	4. Chapter 4

_(Flashback)_

_"Luke! Are you alright?!"_

_Mycroft shouted at the man just ten steps across him, now hidden in a mess of rubble. That explosion should've had him. But instead, this man named Luke, pushed him aside._

_Luke Sanders. The agent was a new addition to his team. Only a year ahead of him in joing the forces. But because he excelled at almost everything tactical and technical, logic and statistics he was promoted of being an Alpha, team leader. And now he's under a sole staged mission._

_Which brought him and Luke into a surveillance and retrieval mission in an old terrorist hideout in Belgrade, Serbia. A task to retrieve some confidential informations about a different matter—of course it was also staged. A mission about a terrorist subgroup of Al-Qaeda situated in that city. The two of them from SIS London are the one's sent by direct order from the United Kingdom's Ministry of Defence._

_"You are going to get me killed. And call me Echo!" An annoyed deep voice from under the rubble complained. A minute later, Luke, wearing the same black intelligence uniform as his, emerged from the rubble. The man's long jet black hair that was tied into a tail before was now loose._

_The man pushed him just in time before the bomb explodes as he removed the files hidden inside the vault. The bomb was a trap triggered by the removal of the package. The abandoned terrorist hideout has now been reduced to hollowblocks, dusts, roofings and steels scattered everywhere and in pieces. The smoke it produced made the afternoon wind even warmer._

_Mycroft faked an emotion, "Sorry ... I was just ... I worry you know."_

_Luke who was now straining to walk stared at him curiously as the man dusts himself off._

_"Be professional, Alpha." Luke murmured with an unreadable facial expression. If Mycroft's good at acting, so as this Luke._

_Mycroft stared passed the man's shoulder. He could feel his cheeks burning. A wave of memories assaulted him. Indeed he felt he was really besotted at the man. He would no longer deny that. Despite everything that he had discovered three weeks ago—something that almost shattered ... him._

_What Mycroft didn't expected was the mission. The plan was to expose the double agent responsible behind the death of the top four agents of MI5 and MI6. Eight people murdered in their own secured homes. And it turns out, their suspect was Luke Sanders. Or also known to the criminal, and international undergrounds as Sebastian Moran._

_So in a span of two months, they had been acquainted Mycroft had even taken the man to bed. A part of this ... act for his mission._

_"Of course. I am—"  
Mycroft faked a sorrowful expression. He's getting really good at this. His superiors even had noticed._

_A heartfelt chuckle made him focus his gaze at the handsome man now crouched on knees in front of him. Black uniform sprinkled with dust, shirt collar askew, face lightening with a silly smile, and those hazel brown eyes boring to his grey ones. Mycroft felt a chill run down his spine as the man closed the remaining spaces between them. Warm fingers slowly traced his jaw and lingers on his lips._

_"I can't let anything happen to you too—Alpha. You do know that." the man leaned forward as he whispered against his jaw._

_He gasped as Sebastian's lips finally grazed against his._

_"Sebastian ..." He winced at the sound of his voice. It felt like losing already. Almost desperate, excited and in pain of something, that he couldn't fathom before. Something he had felt for the first time. The worst of all the motivations. The worst of all sentiments. And still, he's feeling it and regretting it at the same time._

_"Why? We're alone. Sod the mission. You've got the folder—" Seb's voice ricocheted inside him. Filling his whole body with a mixture of emotions. And he would've starved for more of this if everything was real. If Luke was real._

_And Mycroft's stubborness wanted it to be real. He immediately grasped the man's arm and pulled him closer._

_But what needs to be done. Needs to be._

_"Alright. Kiss me ... again." Mycroft murmured in a low voice against Sebastian's ears as he closed his eyes._

_"As you wish." Sebastian replied._

_Now._

_Mycroft's heart rate doubled as he felt the cold touch of something round against his ... temple followed by a stern voice issuing a command._

_Finally. He already deduced it'd be like this. The man was quite predictable._

_"Give me the files Mycroft."_

_Mycroft opens his eyes slowly and was greeted by a gun now hovering so close to his nosebridge._

_"Working a double identity is quite taxing." He implored blandly._

_"You don't seem surprised?"_

_Mycroft willed himself to prevent ALL of the emotions he's feeling right now to show up on his face._

_"You don't seem surprising." He countered._

_Moran laughed like a maniac._

_"This. This is why I liked you. Mm ... Do you have any idea how you looked earlier though? You should've seen your face. You looked so ... in love. Have you fallen for me already, Mycroft? What an honour if that's the case—the best of MI6 agents has showered me of his affections. And so good in bed too—I'd give you that. Too bad I haven't had you on your back. Must've been glorious. I should've."  
Moran said in a mocking voice._

_"Are you done wasting your breath ... Sebastian Moran. You can't flatter me with pleasantries, I'm afraid._

_With the mention of the man's real name, Mycroft knew he had hit a nerve. Maybe this man didn't really think that they would know his real identity._

_"So I've been told that you're exceptional. Mm ... You're too good for me. Maybe I'd have a chat with your younger brother sometime. I've heard he's already making his name in your local community. Too bad no one's listening to him. He'd be a brilliant detective in no time—Brilliant. Indeed." The man murmured to himself, eyes glinting with something. And then Mycroft saw those eyes gleamed dangerously._

_"Leave my brother out of this."  
He muttered under his breath._

_"Oh I will, he's too young for me. Plus ... You've entertained me thoroughly. I really loved those nights."_

_He was about to say something when the first alarm sounded and a number of laser lights pointed at the man's chest. Moran's eyes widens and Mycroft took the distraction as an opportunity to execute his plan. He immediately slid his foot between Moran's legs. The man caught off guard stumbled on the floor, gun skittering to the other corner. Before the man could pull out another gun, he pulled out his own from his ankle and shoving it on the man's temple._

_Finished. This was the only thing he was tasked to do. Give face to the man behind the killings and the name Sebastian Moran._

_Before leaving the warehouse to its impending demise, Mycroft looked at the man on the floor and swore to himself that the man would be his last mission._

_He took the files and walked into safety as he pressed a speed dial number on his phone and told the other line to confirm an order._

_Another alarm sounded and then after a few seconds, the place blew up._

_He looked back on the collapsed building, amidst the flying debris and cloud of smoke. But there just beyond the trees, he saw a lone limping figure disappearing on the nearby woods._

_And if there's one thing Mycroft regret that day, it was because of sentiment that he wasn't able to end Moran's life._

•••••

When they made it to the tarmac, Mycroft lifted his phone to his ears, eyes focused on the figure on the aeroplane's floor where John was slouched—busying himself with Sherlock's wounds.

"Confirm Hiroshima." He murmured the familiar code once the line connected. No one answered back at him but he knew he was heard.

A few minutes later, when the aeroplane was now up in the air, a loud rumble was heard and a mushroom cloud of smoke rose in the sky in a far away distance. A mimic of the first US atomic bombing in Hiroshima, Japan. A code used to annihilate a certain building or any place related to the enemies. Mycroft spared a glance on the dilapidated building and thought he saw someone standing on its rooftop looking directly at him. But in a blink of an eye, it was gone.

He felt John's gaze on him but he never returned it.

The smoke swirled higher and soon enough firemen, policemen, passersby, or maybe the SIS will crowd the abandoned sugar factory. And if before, Mycroft cared for the man he left behind. This time, to hell with him. This time Mycroft never looked back. But still, he never forget.

•••••

_(St Bartholomew's Hospital)_

_(24 hrs. later)_

\------

"WHAT?!" John exclaimed beside him.

"I really can't stay, John. I'm afraid, there are much more important things at the moment that I am needed to attend to."

"... But Mycroft—"

"—Country to run, remember?"

"Bollocks!"

"John—"

" _Seriously_ , Mycroft. You can't just leave me here and deal with your mess. And don't you even try to threaten me."

Mycroft almost lost his step out of the elevator. He mentally cursed the still throbbing bullet wound on his leg.

"Careful, you _idiot_." John spouted at him, glaring. He just raised his eyebrows. Then he turned his gaze on the hallway ahead.

"William _is_ anagent. _Of course_ , he's vital." He said. "He's not just a mess, as what you've deduced wrongly. But the thing is, I cannot stay here at the moment, John. _National Security_. And before you try and stop me again I'll tell you that the case I am working on now _is_ related to William's. So—" He glanced at his traveler's watch.  
"You are a doctor. And I personally trust you. I need you to look after him.

Mycroft saw confusion and a hint of sadness crossed the former soldier's eyes. But it was gone the moment John's gaze became stern once again.

"Why me?"

"Why not you?"

"Mycroft, don't return my questions with questions. There are other doctors who are much more capable than me. We both know that."

Mycroft contemplated for a moment. He have to choose the right words to say. He have to make John remain. _Think_. He always knows what to say.

"I am aware of that, Doctor Watson. But I am also aware that you know it's not just your hands or your intelligence that are needed on this matter. I need you to look after him, and care for him—because you're you." He said, holding John's gaze. "You have something that I don't have. You have faith, John. I don't. And before you snap at me again, let me tell you this. If you'll only believe in a miracle when it happens then it wouldn't happen. Believe even if it won't. That's faith—I trusted you, not just because Sherlock trusted you. But because you have earned my trust in a way that no one easily had."

_Because when you came into Sherlock's life you have saved him from himself and from the world, John. Something even I ... couldn't do._

Mycroft watched as John looked down on his shoes as if the man's decisions are based on those. Then John cleared his throat, took a step closer and looked up at him. Deep blue eyes a contrast of the weather outside.

"Alright." John said, breaking the silence. "I honestly don't know where you got those words but yea— _alright_. Sherlock once said, you always seem to know what to say." The man breathe out a sigh. "I'll look after William." John murmurs.

He nodded with a slight smile. But before he could leave, John called on him again.

"Mycroft wait—" He stopped at the sound of his name.

"I ... Why do you still trust me with this?"

He narrowed his eyes.

"I couldn't even save him." John continued shaking his head lightly.

And Mycroft already knew who was him that John was talking about.

"John," He said calmly, "If there's a way to turn back time... which unfortunately—we cannot—I'd go back to the day of the Fall. And I swear to you that I'd help you to do anything to stop my brother. IF the circumstances surrounding the Fall never... happened. But know this John, you have saved my brother before when you met him. I never doubt you'd do it again."

And with that he immediately turned on his heels and walked ahead leaving the man contemplating with what he had said. John's not an idiot. He'll soon figure out what he meant.

He slid the leather gloves off his hands as he neared the door to Sherlock's room. John was now trailing behind.

When he opened the door, he was immediately greeted by the doctors and nurse. And just like that, Mycroft fell on the familiar way he interrogates his brother's doctors.  
He was handed the results of medical and physical and observation while the doctors explain Sherlock's condition.

Mycroft closed his eyes as the words coma was mentioned and then followed by PTSD, IF Sherlock survives. He needed to make arrangements. He needed to make a call. To contact rehabs and therapists. Mycroft never let unsettling emotions get into him but he felt it this time when the doctor mentioned that one last sentence: "But also be ready, in case he—" But Mycroft wouldn't hear any of it.

"Understood, Dr. Wilson. But let me remind you that you are here because I've seen your excellent work in the medical field. Surely you can do something to change that last resort?"

The doctor swallowed and fidgeted on his feet under his scrutinizing gaze.

Suddenly, a hand squeezes firmly on his right arm.

" _Mycroft_."

His gaze turns to John behind him. Giving him a 'bit not good' look.

Mycroft sighs in resign, "Thank you very much, Dr. Wilson."

The doctor nodded at him and excused himself.

"Must you always do that—?"

"If it'll help for them to do something beyond best. Yes. "He replied casually.

He then left John to the nurses as they explain the medicines and walked to the hospital bed.

The figure lying was wrapped in bandage. Head, face, torso, arms, and even the legs are wrapped in white strips. A breathing apparatus was placed through his brother's mouth. How Mycroft wished he could just wave a hand and Sherlock would be healed. But no, even if he's a government official, he felt like even just being that still didn't helped them. Mycroft felt he couldn't wait to be on command again. He will do everything he can this time to pursue Moran. He will never stop until he was sure himself that the man's dead beneath his fingertips. He will end him. Once and for all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this'll be Mycroft's last point of view chapter at the moment. The next would be John's and William's—I mean, Sherlock. Yay! Good luck me!


	5. Chapter 5

  
The room screamed of dullness. For the reason that the paint used was the colour white. If Sherlock was here, he would've screamed in frustration for not being able to deduce anything about the room—except for the white paint. John smiled bitterly to himself. He sighed as he continued checking on the chart of the patient Mycroft left to his care.

The chart was still empty of basic informations but it was full of recent examination results along the records of blood pressure and pulse rates every three hours and other observations in detail. But other than that, anything that could be used to recognize the man as a government agent wasn't listed. Giving a once over look at the chart, he laid it on the bedside table and went on check his patient.

Still wrapped in bandages, the only visible parts of William's skin are the wrists, pale dry lips, and the pair of eyelids that haven't even fluttered since they have saved the man three months ago. Ever since he and Mycroft dragged William out of the building, other than a weak pulse, and slow shallow breathing, the man haven't recovered much.

John sighed once again as he sat on the couch Mycroft's assistant delivered on the first week of his job as the agent's personal doctor.  
He was more than grateful for it, to be honest. Even though his body has fully recovered from bruises, exhaustion and lack of sleep, being a doctor with a patient doesn't differ much on being a soldier. He still needs to be in full alert just in case there'll be a much awaited development in William's state.

John reminisced of the days before the mission. Before Mycroft's call. He felt so alone again after Sherlock had died. But now that that monotous life he's slowly getting used to has turned a different direction once again, he couldn't really decide if it's for the better or if it was for the worse. Seeing a man lying on the bed that almost had his bones broken from a brutal torture. He was reminded of his old nightmares of the cold-blood war. He couldn't help but feel pity for the agent.

A knock on the door startles him and John stood up to check on it. Bearing in mind Mycroft's reminder to him that William's life isn't still safe from the group that tortured the man, he took his gun from the drawer and hid it behind him. Carefully, he walked near the door and held the knob firmly.

"John?"   
The muffled voice outside called out and he strained to listen.

"John, it's Greg. Are you in there?"

He cursed a sigh of relief as he clicked the gun's safety on behind him.

"Yea wait a sec!" He shouted back while returning the gun on the drawer. Then he went on the door to open it. Indeed, it revealed the detective inspector with a weary look.

"Greg. Come in."

The DI finally smiled at him and made his way inside the room. John watched as Greg's gaze turn to figure lying on the bed then back at him.

"Blimey, he's a bit wrapped up, is he? Thought it was just a case of beat up." Greg waved at William's bandages.

"You've heard about him?"

Greg spared the figure a glance once again. "I tried to call Mycroft for Mrs. Hudson. But his assistant was the one who took the call. She told me that you are here and an on-call doctor at the moment. But I told her that Mrs. Hudson was so worried about you. You haven't texted her ever since you've said you'll be gone for another month. You know how she's a mother."

"Err ... yea. I've been quite busy. Been assisting the doctors and nurses here. I barely touch my phone. I'll call her later."

Greg nodded at the figure before sitting on one of the spare chairs.  
"Anyway, she told me about this agent?"

John rubbed his nape and nodded sheepishly, "Err ... yes, Agent William. I know what you're thinking. That's what I thought too. I just ... But then I haven't heard anything about Mycroft's ... you know?"

"Yea. Same here, mate. I feel like O don't want to know about it. But not that I'm against it or anything or anyone. But you're right—Mycroft and ... " Greg trailed off clearing his throat in the process.

John chuckled, "I know."

A familiar silence settled between the two men before John breaks it once again.

"Where are my manners? Would you like some coffee?"

"Oh don't bother. I'm just checking on you."

"Well, thank you. That helped, I think I'm going mad in here."

"Sorry, mate. I couldn't paid you a visit."

"No, it's fine. It's just something different. I'd ask Mrs. Hudson if she could visit as well when William recovers."

"That'd be great for this man I suppose. But has your patient showed any signs of recovery though?"

John sighed as he sat on the couch to rest his leg.

"No, that's what I'm worried about. But then he's been tortured. There are only a handful of cases where brutally tortured patients recovers immediately."

"I know you can save him, John. "

John bit his lower lip and shook his head.

"I don't know, Greg. I've handled tortured fellow soldiers when I was in the army. Those who have suffered being a hostage of rebels for days or three weeks had a larger chance of recovery. But if it's months? Sometimes recovery takes years if there was a brain demage. Or sometimes not at all.

William... he still haven't shown any signs that he wants to recover at all. It's like he doesn't have a reason to do it. If this went on and on—"

"John. Have you given up to any of your patients?" Greg asks him seriously.

John shook his head, "No. Not if the patients themselves given up."

Greg smiled fondly. "Then that's what makes you a bloody good doctor. Give your patient a reason to recover then, if you think he's losing it. Try it John."

John nodded and smiled back. "I thought of doing that already. Thanks, Greg."

"Shut up. You're the one who risked your life to save the bloody man, don't give up on him that easily."

"I won't." John looked at the figure lying still on the bed. "I've made the same promise before to someone but I lost hi—that person. But this time, I'll try my best to keep it."

Greg grinned at him. "There you are. That's the John Watson I know."

•••••

  
Days passed by and eventually, a miracle seemed to have been on the works. William had finally shown signs of recovery. Although he haven't opened his eyes to full consciousness, William's vital signs became stable and allowed John to finally be able go back at work. A nurse look after his patient as John spent his daytime as a GP in the clinic he was working and as William's doctor in the evening. After shift, he goes to Bart's with a takeaway and he eats it there beside William. John's routine has now included William.

He tells William what happened to his work. And somehow the stress of dealing with a lot of patients everyday had disappear. Turns out, talking out helps alot in dealing with a stressful day. And John marvels at it, because before, Sherlock could've deduced everything, before he even starts to speak about it.

It was on one of his rest days, that John decided to read his personal blog to William. Seated on the couch on William's bedside with a coffee on hand and laptop on his lap, he browsed the past entries of his site.

Surprisingly, John felt nervous. Maybe because it'll be the very first time that he'll visit his blog once again, after his last post for Sherlock. Or maybe because he refused to feel the numbing pain all over again. But he was a soldier. And this time, he have another life he could save. So for the sake of helping William reconnect to the world of the living, he reads. And he chooses the post he entered that contains a certain memory, now he holds dear to him.

"Alright, Will." He swallowed the invisible lump on his throat as his eyes read the title post. "So—this ... err ... post—It's called, 'A Strange Meeting'. It was ...something that happened—two years ago. It was ...one of the most important day of my life..." He paused as the memory of the day flashed right before his eyes _—Bumping into an old friend—catching up—_

"But I hadn't known that..." _—Entering a door to a laboratory and meeting the cleverest and wisest person he had ever known—_ "I hadn't known that until after 24 hours." He smiled— _A mop of raven black curls, a tall slim figure of a man._  
"You know... I... I had to stop myself from gaping at him all the time." He recalled in a daze, laptop forgotten. "He was... He seemed to glow with an aura of confidence, grace, beauty—adjectives that I have always used to describe a woman. But he... He was just charming... Very charismatic. Those words just fit. And his eyes..." He paused to take a sip of his coffee. — _A mixture of pale green and stormy grey. Those stares that made him felt raw. Naked. As if the man was uncovering all of his deepest secrets. As if the world around them doesn't exist. And all the man was seeing was him._  "They were beautiful. Sherlock was."

John cleared his throat and drained his mug. He stood up to put the laptop on the table. He went to the bathroom to rinse his mug and wash his hands. Afterwards, he carried the mug back to the table and went back to the couch. He sat there feeling light as a feather. And he speaks once again.

"I haven't told anyone about that, you know—even him." He shook his head lightly. "How I see him was very different from the others. They see him as a freak, as a sociopath, as a man who says the meanest things and never apologises for them. But Sherlock ...was—"

John blinked away the wetness, now starting to form in his eyes.

"—Unique. He was someone who sees everything that most people don't seem to pay attention. He observes too much that even if he does miss something, it was a very little detail of the huge picture puzzle he had already solved."

"'You see. But you don't observe.' That's what he always used to say to most of the people around him—including me. And the reason that most of those people hated him. They see him as someone who was so proud of himself. Someone who doesn't care how his words would affect others. But they just didn't know Sherlock as I do." John swallowed another lump that formed on his throat as his eyes blurs the view of the unconscious figure beside him. Softly, he took William's bandaged hand and cradled it to his.

"I've failed him you know. I've made a promise to myself, that I'll protect him. That I'll do anything to keep him safe. Because he's just that of an idiot when dealing with criminals. But he's... I—

After Afghanistan, I became a living ghost. I was so alone. I was dead. But the times I have spent with Sherlock made me feel alive again. He made me live again. He was the reason I am still here. He completed me. And yet—I ... I've failed him."

"I wasn't able to save h-him... And I still feel so guilty about it. And now here I am trying to save you. So please, don't give up for Mycroft, William. Don't make him suffer like I did."

A soft knock on the door made him let go of William's hand reluctantly. He laid it back on the bedside as he turned to the nurse now closing the door and walking towards them. She went to William's bedside amd went on to do her work. John excused himself for the loo, while the nurse busied herself as well.

And both missed the light twitch of the man's fingers lying on the bed. The ones that John held with his.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all of the comments and kudos and for reading still!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Graphic and Detailed description of Sherlock's ordeal (torture) and *sighs heavily* force sexual foreplay (although it's not much focused on that). It was a backstory of Sherlock's torture and as it happens again inside his subconscious as he's in coma. 
> 
> If you want to skip this UPDATE, I highly advice though, to do it. THIS is a difficult one to write. And a difficult one to read (for me). Don't worry if I have written it in four hours straight. What matters is what you would feel afterwards. 
> 
> Thank you for bearing with me. And oh, I have to thank my brain as well. Amidst a severe headache attack, it managed to give birth to this. See you next chapter!

  
Cold.  
He felt so cold.  
Ragged breathing escaped his mouth as he shivered against the wind that was passing through the opened windows. He felt his fingertips swell from the freezing surrounding. Obviously, they stripped him off of clothing. Belstaff gone, scarf gone, even his suit. But they did left his boxers on. Small favours.

He didn't know how long he was out earlier. But he remembered that he was on his usual walks around the Republic Square's park, lost inside his mind palace. What the intelligence told him was that the place was not the usual ground for his targets so it's a safe place for him to stroll on. That was until a sack was placed over his head and the tip of a needle struck his leg followed by a wave of dizziness took over him as everything went black.

The second time Sherlock woke up, he heard muffled conversations around him in Serbian language. He stilled and pretended to be unconscious. Apparently, by keeping himself slumped on his folded knees on the floor while his head bowed down works. But for the sake of having the privellege to see his torturers, Sherlock tilted his head a bit to see who were talking. On the far corner by the window, three men with a large built was having an argument. By the left peering out on the streets and occassionally responding on his comrades was Cleft-lipped guy, and the other two on the right are Chubby and Bearded guy.

"You shouldn't injected that much. Look at him! He's been down for hours! Boss wanted him awake!" The bearded one complained.

"Stupid!" The chubby ones barked back. "Didn't you know this man? Boss says he's a psychopath! We need to be careful!"

_Sociopath, idiots. Do your research. Can't there be only one Anderson?_

He thought to himself. And somehow the thought of Anderson lessen the uneasiness he's feeling. The side of his lips quirked down. Good Lord.

"You shit of a coward!" The bearded guy exclaimed. "We've killed hundreds in our lifetime and you bow down to a psychopath?! Idiot!"

Cleft-lipped smirked at the two, "Shut up! Both of you!" Then he turned to the latter, "And you! Filthy fat bastard! How could he harm us? Are you blind? Can't you see he's bound! For once analyze a situation! Not just the foods you'll consume!"

Chubby guy snarled at Cleft lip's mockery.

Moriarty is dead. He thought. And the person that these men are talking about was definitely the second in command. And could only be Sebastian Moran.

The chubby guy was right to fear him though. Martial arts and all. But unfortunately, his leg wouldn't cooperate. That cursed drug was probably the reason. But escaping was the last of his worries. His mission isn't finished yet. He needed to know who that person is. And there's only one way to do it.

He cleared his throat, _"Take me—to your... 'boss'."_ He said in Serbian. The three men looked down at him with a surprised expression on their faces. And then he said something again that made the men looked at each other.

He rolled his eyes. Idiots.

He shouted a rude comment in the same language and this time that earned him a smack from the butt of a gun at the back of his head.

The third time he woke up, it was because of the cold fresh water that was poured all over him. He blinked away the droplets falling from his curls and looked around. He was on a room a bit larger than the previous, with a long wooden table in the middle. The table, obviously, was filled with the usual things used in the act of torture. And Sherlock can only imagine those things. But what really caught his eyes are the ones on the upper shelves, mineral oils and different types of lubricant.

_Well, this should be fun._

One of the guards walked to the table and picked up the whip. The guard then tossed it on the other man standing on the far corner behind him. Faster than a blink, Sherlock felt the whip lashing in contact with his back. The pain didn't registered at first for the cold water helped. But then his captors repeated the ordeal over and over again until he drooled on the floor and his back swelled with cuts.

They asked him questions about MI5, MI6, and the Ministry of Defence. For every whip, there was a question. But he never answered to them. And when he wouldn't answer, they will sprinkle salt on his back. One would treat his knees as a nailhead and the other would think of himself as a wood carver. Only the man's wood' was Sherlock's chest.

Finally, after the first wave of torture, they let him rest. The sun has gone down already. And the gnawing feeling of not knowing how long he's been captured made his anxiety doubled. His brother might be launching a full-scale search and operations right now. He's been gone for what almost a year? He hasn't tracked the dates for the last eight months. But he's sure that he was almost through his second year in dismantling Moriarty's network.

But what he do know was that everytime the red door opens, three different Moran goons would enter and torture him in their own favourite way. And those ways would leave their mark on him—as scars, wounds, bruises, punctured nail marks. Eventually, some of the marks faded away. At least the less serious ones. But those that took longer to heal made him feel pain day by day. And although Moran has a doctor, Sherlock willed himself not to think of the one person he only allowed on his nearly naked and wounded body after dealing with murderous suspects.

His whole body was thoroughly decorated with scars—old and fresh. And he was conscious and in pain when each of them were intricately made on his skin. Sometimes he wished he brought his prescriptions with him. They might've numb the pain beforehand and afterwards.

*****

When Sherlock thought the nail gun was the worst, electrocution was used. When he thought it was all they got after asking a question about the Ministry of Defence, he told them to piss off. And then he went on to deduce and mock his captors—each of his deduction earned him five paddles—on his arse. And he thought, once again, that was that.

Oh boy, how wrong he was.

One evening, when the lights are out due to a power cut—the red door opened and a different man arrived inside the room. Sherlock knew because it was the footsteps that he was trying to take notes of. It was quiet, soft, as if the man was afraid to make any sound. The moonlight from the skylight passed over the man's figure. Sherlock saw the man's back. Long jet black hair was tied in a neat ponytail. He was wearing a leather black jacket and black jeans. Sherlock thought, this one's a bit decent in looks and when the man turns to him, he saw a calm smile. And right there and then Sherlock knew he was face to face with the right man.

"Moran ..." He whispered weakly.

Moran acknowledged him with another smile. Sherlock automatically bowed his head. But not for respect, but of caution. He wasn't sure what kind of pain he would receive at the moment. He thought of giving into deductions and see what irked this man. But then, what he never expected to happen came from behind.

Of all the ordeal Sherlock Holmes went through, what the man did to him was the most terrifying thing he would never forget.

He's gone deaf as his breathing turned to gasps. His heartbeat erratic. The following quiet sounds registered quickly—unbuckling belt—the hush whisper of fabrics—as if a gentle breeze was with him inside the room. And then the feeling of warm fingertips against his spine. He closed his eyes, as the fingers trace his hipbone and then curling in his front. Confusion, disbelief and... fear. Sherlock couldn't believe what was happening or what else are about to happen.

"W-What do you think y-you're doing?"  
He asked, stuttering waekly from the cold. He tried to convince himself it was because of that. Sherlock shivered as Moran's voice came a whisper through his ears.  
"Well, what do you think, love?" The man's voice drawled. And before Sherlock could answer, his boxers were dragged lower to his ankles and his legs spread wide. He forced himself not to whimper as cold fingertips slicked with lubricant rimmed his arse's hole.

"Relax, Mr. Holmes. I'm sure you'll love this. My files told me you are still a virgin."  
Moran continued to whisper to him as another finger was forced inside him.

"Oh—Or are you not? That was quick. You naught man. Does that doctor had you already?"

He gasped as the man's third finger entered him. Sherlock trembled and shivered once again. He thought Moran would wreck him thoroughly, but then he felt the absence of fingers behind him right after the third. And that's when the red door opened.

"Ah. Here are my special visitor's Mr. Holmes. Actually, you might've forgotten them. But what you DID to them, it was quite unforgettable." Moran left him hanging limply on his chains, knees buckled as the visitors which he remembered as the men connected to the three largest cases of murder, gambling and corruption walked in front of him.

"I'm quite sure I have told my brother to put you into life sentence." He muttered under his breath.

One of the men, the old man, the top corrupt politician, smirked at him.  
"Well, apparently, some useful informations are much important than the ... younger brother. Mr. Sherlock Holmes."

When Sherlock heard the rustling of clothes, Moran flicked his finger and the lights went on.

The man then looked at him, with a calm smile. "You know what, I admire your guts. For almost two years you have managed to dismantle our organization. You have managed to eradicate my best men. But most of all, you have successfully killed our leader beforehand—bravo."

Sherlock shot him a look. "I didn't killed him. He killed himself."

"Mm. So it seemed. That just shows how fond he was of you." Moran replied thoughfully. "I remember asking him to fake his death as well. But he said, 'Oh c'mon, hun. Where's the thrill in that?' And then just like that, he blew his mouth off. Poor sod." Moran said, with a light shake of his head in regret. The man looked at him with accusing eyes, "And thanks to your brother I wasn't able to go back to him immediately."

"It was a suicide and Moriarty was a psychopath. " He said blandly.

"Mm... Anyway, well!" Moran then turned on his back and walked to the door.

"Enjoy your night lads!" Moran told the men as the knob turned open. "But most of all—make him scream."

Moran looked at him with a spine-chilling smile, "You should've stayed in London, Mr. Holmes. The Fall would've ended—differently."

With that, the man went out closing the door behind him with a quiet click. And at that same moment, the lights went out again as a hand grabbed on his curls forcefully—a hand caressed his bare chest while the other pleasured over him. After what was like hours and days and months of the new addition to his ordeal his throat felt raw from screaming. And his body numb from the rimming, probing, and continuous onslaught of fingers and membrum virile inside him.

Now, he could never face that one person anymore. If he lived through this.

No.

He might as well die.

And still, in every lash, in every pound, in every cut, in every single watt of electricity that traveled through his body he's held onto a sole memory on his mind to keep him alive.

*****

Sherlock was no longer aware of himself slipping in and out of consciousness. The last time he remembered of being awake, he saw the falling leaves of a single maple tree from the window, buried on the factory's backyard. So it was autumn. How long had he been remaining there? His mind was totally wrecked. The files inside the rooms of his mind palace are disarranged. And the worst part of it was that he couldn't move his body to rearrange them.

He looked at the orange leaves plucked by the wind one by one. Suddenly he felt his eyes well with tears. He longed to be free, like those leaves. He wanted to finish his mission and just go home. But he couldn't and there's no one who knows what happened to him.

All these thoughts clouded his mind. If only he could order his mind to shutdown when the last leaf falls. Ah... that, he could try.

He decided the , he'll do just like that. So Sherlock Holmes retreated to his mind palace, closing the doors and the windows. No carriage bridge, no tower posts. Just him on his own realm. The one place he goes when he couldn't take his surroundings anymore. The one place that makes him feel safe, his second home next to 221b. The sole room on the second floor of his mind palace where his memory of John Watson are with him.

Sherlock couldn't count the moment he felt awake. He couldn't even tell if it's real or not. Was he still on his mind palace? He guessed not. Because his mind palace doesn't have a John Watson talking in hushed tones and soft voice. As if John was telling a story to children. His mind palace was still wrecked then. That's the only cause of this unusual situation.

The sound of footsteps from below reached his ears. And then a voice again. A visitor? An intruder? No one visits his mind palace when he's disoriented, unless it was ... the only thoughts from a person he's allowed to enter.

A flash of bright light followed by the soft low voice speaking. It echoed in the empty halls of the second floor where he was lying just across that sole room.

"...And then he came, announcing himself as Sherlock Holmes. He goes on fighting off those asian goons. Six foot of kicking and punching idiot. Bloody hell—I was so mad at him but at the same time I was relieved because he came. And I decided that when he arrives I'll strangle him but when—"

The darkness took over as if it was a blanket over him. He panicked. He thrashed. Over and over again, he tried to get away. But the darkness became multiple chains bound on both of his wrists. One moment he was standing, and then the other he was tied to a chair.

Continously, he hears John's voice telling him of their adventures. But most of the time he catches the name William, which makes him wonder, was John aware of his first name? No. He couldn't remember when he told John his first name. Seriously, his mind palace was definitely on its way of crumbling with all the hallucinations and that.

Before he could even contemplate the darkness overtook him and the pain arrives once again, and again, and again and again. The whipping, electrocution, carving—the onslaught on his body. He kept on shouting for them to stop. He kept on screaming his lungs out. Next he finds himself crawling his way out of the darkness but pairs of hands wraps on his ankles and drags him back again. And when he feels like his torturers have left him dead, he hears John speaks from nowhere and he's alive again.


	7. Chapter 7

  
John opened the door quietly to his patient's room with the recent chart of examination results on hand. He surveyed the chart while absentmindedly pushing the door closed with the sole of his shoes. His eyes surveying all the details. It was one of those sessions after being bed ridden for months that William's brain did some activity. And the doctor said that it happened when John was reading to his patient. So, Dr. Wilson adviced that John should continue talking to William. And because he's aware that talking could really help, he gladly agreed.

He put the chart on the table, took his laptop and sat down on the couch. He opened it on the tab of his blog and started browsing for something to read. John scrolled and scrolled and found what he wasn't looking for. He wasn't really interested for the memories of that particular case to unfold again. But he couldn't also deny that it was a great case for his flatmate. It just really almost made things potentially awkward for the both of them. Not because of the said case BUT because of the Woman, on the said case.

He breathed a heavy sigh as he proceed.  
"Right. William, I am now... reading to you—this... one case that..."

 _That made you question and doubt everything in this world including your sexuality_. A voice inside his head chides.

John grunted in frustration. The memories of the Woman—Irene Adler, naked, in front of Sherlock really shooked him. Not that Irene was naked. Was it? No. No. It's because of how Sherlock reacted to that. He never saw Sherlock that confused before. And yes, he felt a tinge of jealousy over there. He's not gay. No. But when Irene just slapped him on the face with the truth. How does one reacts to that? And the fact that Sherlock heard their exchange at the Battersea Power Station he thought he'd be thrown out of the madman's life. But in the end, it wasn't talked about. It was forgotten. And he thought, Sherlock never really mind.

He swallowed a lump on his throat as he began, "The case was ... titled, 'A Scandal in Belgravia..."

And then he went on to tell William everything about the brilliant deduction Sherlock made from the previous case, which was essential. And then what happened 'in the case' of the compromising photos that was saved on the coded phone they got from Irene. How the Woman faked her death, and how she ended up dead in the end.

John didn't went on to tell the full details though. Not because he was aware that William couldn't hear him at the moment, which was good. He didn't know how long he could still keep his voice straight, absent of that jealousy tone. A jealousy that shouldn't exist, but it was always there ever since. He just didn't paid attention to it.

He closed his laptop and laid it somewhere safe. He doesn't feel like reading anything else right now. He's supposed to feel relaxed and contented that he had read to William. But instead he felt something inside him that wants to claw out.

John knew what it was.

He became aware of it, after Sherlock's Fall. After nights of not sleeping, and just drinking. After hallucinating of seeing Sherlock everywhere. After having nightmares of seeing Sherlock fall over and over again. After crying his heart out inside Sherlock's bedroom for two months and then another two months. He was a mess. He never fully recovered from suffering on that regret. The epitome of it, that Sherlock had to die just for him to realise what he truly felt for his flatmate-cum-bestfriend wasn't a simple thrill caused by a criminal case. Not just the rush of adrenaline when they ran around London chasing a murderer.

No. It was more than that.

And John thought it was just ridiculous that he's having this feeling of telling everything how he felt about Sherlock to the man lying still on a hospital bed. He's not going for an Oscar award-winning performance but his nerves just wouldn't calm, that he suddenly blurted out in frustration—

"Was there something you haven't done, that you regretted the most?"

As if sensing his anxiety, John saw William's finger twitched once again. As if the agent was saying, 'I am listening.'

"Well, I have..." He said quietly. "What I regret the most was never being brave enough to tell Sherlock... what I truly felt for him." He continued. "—that I loved him. And that's... Not just... Not just as a friend." He sighed as he felt a warm light feeling spreading inside his chest. And from then on, his words flowed freely.

"I loved Sherlock, not just because he's... charming." He smiled to himself at the thought of it. "That when I saw him I really thought he was... really charming though, but then he opened that mouth of his." And John actually laughed with that memory. "He went on with his deductions which was brilliant, extraordinary, amazing. Those words could mean the same thing but only of different levels but that's who he was for me. But admittedly, it was a bit creepy at first. I even thought of him as a mad person. But eventually, he's just... He observes—way too much." He paused to catch his breath, eyes narrowing as he tries to comprehend why was he explaining these things to an unconscious person, but he continued anyway.

"When we were living as flatmates, he was a bit funny at times, but really—mostly annoying. He goes on pacing at the flat back and forth and he'd throw things my way or the other way, and then he'll sulk like a twelve-year old when I ask him to clean his mess up. Then there's his experiments." He shook his head lightly. "Quite a mix of emotions about Sherlock's experiments honestly—mostly I'm annoyed. You have to be careful around those beakers of his. Even the food on the fridge, the detergent powder on the sugar jar. But you know, when Sherlock was focused with something, he remains that way until he fulfilled his aim. Like when he cured my limp without me noticing it. He took me running all over London at night. And then before the night ends, I've unbelievably killed someone for him. To save him of course. He was an utter git but it was a good night." John smiled fondly at the memories, Sherlock's giggle, the thrill of the chase, his cane forgotten and most of all when Sherlock realised that John had saved his life.

"So yeah. I loved him... loved him so much and still I wasn't...

I wasn't able to protect him. I wasn't able to save his life this time."

John closed his eyes at the familiar pain that suddenly struck his chest as he felt the droplets of tears fell from his eyes.

"That last time I talked to him... Just us, in the same lab where we met—Told 'im he's a machine—" He paused and sniffed as his tears are unstoppable now. "Because I thought... he never cared for anyone. And then I left him. I actually left him, to deal with Moriarty alone. I had a feeling it was his plan. Me, to check on Mrs. Hudson and then him, to deal with Moriarty.

And then it happened, when he decided to take his own life. He said he was a liar, that he just made everything up. He was there, in tears, above Bart's and... I—

I was just standing there—not doing anything. He told me not to move and I was a bloody coward for listening to him. So I was just there looking up at him as he said goodbye. I just stood there as he was falling... And then when I was finally able to ran to him he... He was flat on the ground. He's gone. He's..."

He huffed in between frustrations and tears.

"And if I could turn back the time... I'd take back the thing I said to him at the lab... Because that's where I lied. Because if there was a machine in there, it wasn't Sherlock. It was me. Because I let him die. I killed him. I was the one who killed him—I was.."

John clutched at William's bedsheets that his fingers could hold onto and broke down in tears. He buried his face on the sheets drowning himself in his own tears.

"Oh God... God I love him so much. I miss him so much. Oh God... Sherlock.. I love you, God I love you... I love.."

He cried and cried as he called on Sherlock's name and never stopped. It's as if all of the frustrations and guilt he had felt over the year and the months that had passed without Sherlock finally broke the walls of his denial and regrets and they overflowed as tears. He felt so broken and lost and that want to have Sherlock, to hug him, to apologise, to ask for forgiveness for not being able to save him—it was all there inside his chest. But now he had freed himself at last.

Lost in his own words of regret and mourning, he barely heard the machine over William's head started to beep continuously.

John's head snapped up as he watched the green zigzag line of William's vital signs as it momentarily stops.

His gaze drops down immediately to William's face and frozed. He was dumbstruck to be greeted by an achingly familiar set of pale greenish-grey eyes, wide open and now flowing with tears.

He held the gaze of those eyes and watched as it slowly closed. William's head began to tilt close to John's chest as the machine over the agent's head went to a straight line.

As if doused in cold water, John instinctly pressed the emergency button above the bed's headboard. He stood there remaining frozen. Not long after, the voice of the intercom broke the silence in the second floor of the hospital's hallway.

'Code Blue, Second Floor, Room 23B'

A rush of fabrics and foosteps entered the door and John was shoved on the edge of the bed. He stood there as the resuscitation team worked in expert calmness and perseverance towards William—

William...?

John's mind cleared at once. He excused himself quietly to one of the waiting nurse, and went outside to the now empty corridor. His face a contortion of anger and panic. He pulled out his mobile, searched for the right contact and pressed the call button.

The line clicks immediately and the voice of a man on the other line spoke in a hurried voice.

"Doctor Watson, what happened?"

John could hear the panic through those lines. Finally, he understood why Mycroft is not being Mycroft towards...

But he needed to be sure. Or he might kill someone again, after a long time.

"John... Is there..." Mycroft asks hesitantly.

John clicked his tongue and hissed over the phone. "Get. your. bloody arse. here at Barts, Mycroft—" He muttered under his breath.

Mycroft quickly replied, "Why?! What happ—"  
But John interjected, "Sherlock's gone code blue." He said surprisingly in a calm and firm voice.

John thought he heard a soft gasp on the other line but this didn't stopped him from prompting what he needed.

"You have some bloody explaining thing to do. Barts!—Now!" He shouted over the phone and ended the call.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh. Hello. This chapter happened in a flash. So you might find grave errors. Not beta'ed also. And not Britpicked? Let us bathe in purely fiction. 
> 
> Thanks for reading, commenting and the hits! Finally, John let it all out. A bit of a dramatic John over here. (That's uh me, these past few days.. But it's here now. Yay!)


	8. Chapter 8

_"Breathe, Sherlock."_

A voice that sounded far away, rippled through Sherlock's consciousness.

_"Breathe for me."_

He tried to open his eyes to see who was talking but to no avail. A film of pure white seemed to block his sight.

Sherlock felt a number of hands work on his body. He knew that he was in a hospital. For that one moment that he was able to open his eyes, he saw the dull colouring of the four walls that screamed familiarity. Then there's the momentarily feeling of a tubing in his mouth being replaced by an oxygen mask. His bandages removed, pulse reader being removed and then put on once again and someone taking his temperature. He could hear people whispering to him, encouraging words urging him unto consciousness.

And Sherlock catalogued them all. He listened and tried to grasp to remain. He filtered every sound until only one of them stood out the most.

_"Come on, you git. Don't die on me again."_

Oh, yes. He knew who owns that voice. It was John. That would be John. He seem to have a penchant for calling him that.

So, he's dying—again. In John's point of view. This was how John saw what's happening.

Intriguing. Before he never thought nor care for fighting for his life. He gladly accepted death as an old friend. And then John came into his life. In a short span of their acquaintance, John had been able to lead him away from making a choice between two pills—from being strangled to death by a criminal—from seeking nirvana to drugs. And then there's the _Fall_.

The Fall was a different case, but instead, John sees it as a failure on his vow to protect him. And he wondered if John already knew that he jumped to protect his life that time.

He was still torn between believing that this is real and not just a dream of someone who's close to dying.

Oh how much he wanted to hear those words from John's lips once again. It's something he has avoided to feel in order to focus on the Work. But it's as if John was the only proof he needed. That he could do work and feel at the same time. And if falling in love with John Watson is a gamble, he has already bet his life for it.

The light he was seeing turned into darkness and the numbness faded. He's now feeling everything. The pain was disorienting. Everything about him ached. And the fear he was feeling unsettled him. The hands that are working on him has stopped too.

It was only him and...

" _Sherlock_..." came John's voice full of anticipation and desperation. He tried to blink his eyes.

" _That's it, open your eyes_..."

The tightness in his eyes that was shut close weakens, and a blurry shadow forms before him.

" _Slowly_..." says John, as if guiding him into the light. " _Slowly... Take my hand, Sherlock_." And Sherlock remember those words like yesterday. The same words he said to John when the police were on their ends. He remembered everything. From the warmth of John's hands to the kiss that he almost anticipated but never happened...

And that was all he needed. The moment the familiarity of those words seeped through him, he was able to blink his eyes open.

There was darkness...  
And then there was John, in the flesh, smiling at him, with shades of blue eyes glistening in tears.

"There you are, you git," John murmurs in a strained voice. "...thought I've lost you—again..."

With his face now free of bandages, Sherlock tried to smile.

" _Ne...ver,_ " He breathed. Or he said. Or so he thought he said, because John only smiled back at him. Eyes still searching his face of God-knows-what.

And all Sherlock wanted was a _touch_. A touch of John anywhere. The feel of John in his hands—and John's hands on any part of him. But he still couldn't move. And he felt dizzy. As if the need to sleep was there again, tempting, inviting—that's when he knew something was wrong.

He saw someone raise a gun and slammed the butt of it against John's head. Sherlock's eyes widens as his bestfriend fell unsconscious on the side of his bed. His heart rate quickens. And Sherlock wanted to scream, wanted to get up, wanted to strangle the man who did it to John. 

Sherlock glared at the culprit who was now standing in front of him, in an all black uniform. Long hair tied to a ponytail and with silvery grey eyes that are now giving him a look full of malice. And he knew who it was, how could he even forget?

The memory of his torture was carved at the walls of his mind palace and worse, once it happened he couldn't delete it. And this man was the reason of it. The light on the ceiling bounces on the man's head.

"M-Moran," Sherlock said in a muffled voice.

Moran smiled at the recognition. The criminal then sprawled his arms on both sides of Sherlock's head and leaned down close to his ear.

"Welcome back, Mr. Holmes. Did you miss me?" Moran said, while running a hand on his curls. Sherlock took the opportunity to clumsily pluck out something from Moran's hair as he saw it shining against the light.

"G-Get... away.. from—me." He bit his lower lip accidentally and the dried skin bled. The blood trickled down his lips. His eyes shut tight as Moran hummed licking the blood that flowed to the bare skin of his neck.

"Mm.. I wonder how the doctor would react if he learns how I sucked you out." says Moran, licking his lips and eyeing him maliciously.

"I will end you." Sherlock says with all the strength he have.

Moran straightened up and dabbed his own lips with Sherlock's sheets.

"Relax, Sherlock Holmes. The Final Problem won't be yours to solve."

Sherlock tried to move but then he feels the stab of a needle on his elbow and the rush of the familiar drug on his veins—as much as it disgusts him now, the drug weakens him. And Sherlock had no choice but to surrender, helpless. He then lets go of the thing in his hand praying that it fell somewhere near John.

•••••

The cold wind blew on his face.   
John opened his eyes to the achingly familiar place that has been the source of his renewed nightmares.

Barts' rooftop.

And for some reason he was cuffed, balanced and seated on one of the corners with his feet dangling in the air.

The wide scenery of London's busy streets and the rush of the holiday season are a breathtaking view below him. Add the long drop that he'll be experiencing if the strong wind successfully blows him downward. He tried not to look down.

"Very good," says the voice behind him, almost startling him. "You're awake. It's been ages. I'm Sebastian Moran, Doctor John Watson. I'm so curious to meet you."

He turned his head sharply on the source of the voice.

"Where is _Sherlock_?"

The man held his gaze and sat on one of the blocks across him.

"You do care so much." Moran said, eyeing him.

"Don't make me repeat myself again." He says with the edge of warning in his voice.

The rooftop's door opened and a man entered quietly. John's eyes widens as he saw who it was.

Moran gazed at the newcomer and stood up.

"Good Evening, Mycroft. It's been a while." Moran greeted.

Mycroft met his gaze before turning to Moran.

"I've done what you wanted. You are clear of all charges. You are free to go. Leave England, and never come back."

"Good. Very good. I know you can easily do it. But... sorry about the uh... change of plans. It was last minute after all."  
Moran said to Mycroft. John watched as Mycroft's eyes clouded with anger.

And John felt the determination to end everything now.

But before he could do anything, Moran flicked his two fingers. The lights comes to life revealing a tall figure standing wobbly on the other edge of the rooftop, hands barely holding on at the steel railing. The man met his haze with tears in his eyes.

"John..."

It was Sherlock.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A wee bit update this time.   
> We're nearing the end and hopefully, I'll put justice in it.   
> I am thanking all of you in advance for the continuous hits this work has been receiving. It's been a helpful therapy working on this. And lastly, thank you to the source of my prompt, SherKat.
> 
> Cheers!


	9. Chapter 9

Something stabbed him under the cuff of his jacket, and John flinched as the thing made contact with his skin again. He couldn't see it but somehow he knew it was a pin. How it got there, he'll think about later. But right now, using his middle and index finger, he clipped the pin in between them and angled it in the keyhole of his cuffs, just like how Sherlock had taught him how to lockpick.

He eyed Sherlock once again and the man has remained at the railing. He then turned his gaze to Mycroft who was still conversing with Moran.

"Getting everything cleared just by making a phone call. Ah..." Moran mimicked Mycroft's relaxed posture. "I'm not surprised you know. But if it's what twenty years ago? I would've. You were full of surprises before, Mycroft. Every single one was thrilling... especially when it's just... us, two." says Moran.

John waited as to how Mycroft would react. But the man only looked down at his umbrella sighing tirelessly. "Don't patronize yourself too much, Sebastian. You know—you're not of importance to anyone. " Mycroft replied casually.

Moran barked a laugh. "Now? Yes—I mean, No. I guess not."

John watched as Mycroft walked towards Moran without any hint of fear. But there's something in the calmness of Mycroft's eyes that made John uncomfortable.

Finally, after a few more minutes of his aching fingers fumbling with the lock, he turned it as the assaulting sound of rotating blades broke into the night. The cuff clicked off behind him and he let it fall slowly, not making any sound.

"The helicopter you requested will take you anywhere you want to go. My pilot will leave the Black Falcon when you are ready to take over. _Now_ —"

The wind around them blew harshly, and John looked away, he saw a glimpse of Sherlock grasping the railing for his dear life, trying not to fall. A black helicopter comes into view and hovered above them.

" _Boss! Come up here! We're good to go!_ "  
A voice in Serbian shouted from above. John looked up to see a bulky man wearing the same black clothes as Moran.

"I did my side of the bargain. Your turn. Leave." Mycroft said.

John watched as the two stared off at each other.

"Of course," said Moran, looking up at the helicopter. "But I still need to do this—"  
With that said, Moran shoots Mycroft's right leg and the man fell down on his knees. He saw Sherlock's eyes widens and flinches as Mycroft grunts in pain grasping his right leg.

"Lesson learned, Mycroft. You should have killed an enemy once you have met him for the first chance. Or you'll lose your chances." Moran shook his head slowly, dramatically, eyeing Mycroft's squirming form on the rooftop.

Then Moran turned to him, John froze when their eyes met. But Moran smiled knowingly.

"Oh, come on—Doctor Watson. I know you've already freed your hands. I solemnly swear not to shoot you while you rescue, your Sherlock Holmes. He's so broken I don't need him anymore. But—" Moran said with a tired voice while turning to Sherlock, "I should've scooped out your eyeballs when I got the chance. What a pretty collection they could've make. " And then back to him again, "Walk now, Doctor Watson. Before I change my mind."

John then obliged. He walked cautious steps towards Sherlock while eyeing Moran at the same time, who was now making his way to the helicopter's cockpit. The pilot's door opened and the pilot slid down and ran towards Sherlock. John then began to quicken his pace. But before he could reach the other side, the sound of a gun being cocked again reached his ears. When he looked back at Moran, the man has his gun on Mycroft's forehead.

" _Really_ , Sebastian? After crippling my leg? You think I'd try to run and ask for help?" Mycroft asked calmly not taking his gaze away from Moran. It was one of those desperate times that John wished he had brought his own SIG.

After five agonizing minutes, Moran held his gun back.

"No. Indeed. I've got better plans for you, when I get back. And I will. So I'll let you live. This was such a fun game Mycroft. It's been a pleasure..." The man trailed off while sparing Sherlock a gaze, "Playing it with you and your brother—oh, and the nutcracker." says Moran with a chilly smile.

After that, the criminal stepped backwards to the ladder rolled down by his minion and held unto it. The helicopter gained momentum and height, taking Moran and his minion, as it flew away from the rooftop and farther into the night.

John saw Mycroft glanced at Sherlock then into the helicopter now far away.

  
Mycroft winced when he moved but he still managed to pluck his phone out of his suit and began tapping, then putting it on his ear.

Mycroft talked over the phone, and just like one of those countless times, John felt the aura of authority the man have.

"Sebastian Moran, you told me that I should've killed you right there and then. But your fate has been sealed the moment I let you got out alive from that building. But that's not my greatest mistake—but sending my brother to end you—that was it. Something I've regret of doing for the rest of my life. So I apologise but I don't see the need to see you back again. And like I usually say to those who serve threat in my country..." Mycroft trailed, and then he looked at Sherlock, "—and my brother. _You've just been eradicated._ "

Mycroft ended the call and tapped something on his mobile. When John looked up at the sky, the helicopter exploded, showering debris amongst the grey and black smoke covering that part of the sky.

Finally ending the life of Sebastian Moran.

They all watched as the debris from the helicopter fell on an empty field far away. Some ashes were blown by the wind and some dropped inconveniently on various places.

"Doctor Watson,"

  
Mycroft's voice startled him. But he held the stern gaze of the man. A former soldier and a former top agent.

"Yes?"

And then Mycroft's gaze softens when he turns to Sherlock.

"Please do look after my brother."

On the corner, Sherlock's figure was shaking, and John just wanted to embrace the man. He dared to glance at Sherlock's eyes and saw the man looking back at him.

"Of course." He whispered, as he walked cautiously beside Sherlock. But still he couldn't help but ask hesistantly. "He's ... safe now? Is he...?"

Mycroft then gave him a reassuring smile. "With you? I don't see why he wouldn't be.

"I know I have alot of explaining to do, Doctor Watson. But we'll save that for another day. Would that be alright? And I have decided we'll do it when you two are well enough. Now, please let me excuse myself. I still have a country to run."  
says Mycroft smiling happily at them despite his injury.

"Yes... And a lot of debris to clean." He heard Sherlock said in a low, ragged and tired voice.

"Certainly, dear brother. And it has always been a joy to hear you speaking." Mycroft says with a gleeful facial expression to Sherlock.

The two brothers shared a knowing stare once again and before Sherlock could rant his answer, Mycroft signals a hand to the pilot and the two turned their backs towards the exit. The pilot had an arm on Mycroft's waist while the latter has his arm on the pilot's shoulder. The both of them watched the two walked away limping.

When the men are almost at the door he heard Sherlock snort beside him.

As if sensing what Sherlock did, Mycroft turned to them once again.

"And brother mine, whatever you have deduced. Keep your mouth shut. I'm sure it'll do you good."

Sherlock once again snorted and grinned at his brother.

"Piss off Mycroft. And do give my regards and gratitude to Detective Inspector Lestrade at your side, and that he needs to cut his hair."

John's eyes widens, "Les—?"  
His gaze turns to the pilot beside Mycroft who's now unmasked and indeed was Lestrade.

"Greg!" He exclaimed in greeting.

The man with the silvery hair nodded at him and smiled. "Hullo, mate. Good to see you and Sherlock alive."

"I—yes. Of course. You too. Thank you. But—a helicopter? You could fly one?"

Greg nodded at him while grinning. "It's just a small favour."

"Disgusting." Sherlock muttered under his breath.

"Really brother mine? Aren't you and Doctor Watson on your way to—" says Mycroft but Greg cuts him.  
"Alright, alright. Come on now, Mr. Holmes—leg to worry, country to run."

Greg waved at them awkwardly while gently guiding Mycroft towards the doors and to the stairs.

"I would not be manhandled like this, Detective Inspector—"

"Yeah, right—watch me."

"I could demote you."

"Now, now. You won't, you just said the other night that you lo—"

Greg's voice got muffled and soon then the two voices arguing down the stairs faded.

Leaving him with Sherlock now.

•••••

"Alright?"  
John murmured towards him after Mycroft and Lestrade, had gone.

"Yes.."  
He answered weakly.

John cleared his throat and take a good look at his face, at his arms that are bruised, inspecting it then dropping them.

"We should—"

He never gave John the chance to finish what he would say. He pressed himself closer to John. His face leveled with John's neck. Sherlock felt heard John gasped softly and he thought of moving away, for John might be bruised but then John takes him into his arms, hugging him carefully. He fitted into him, surprisingly, as if John was a huge puzzle and he was the missing piece.

"John..."

  
He called. Tilting his chin up slowly, he saw John with .eyes closed as if listening to his voice.

"John..."  
He called again. An arm wrapped around his waist, hugging him even closer.  
  
"John..."  
He said again. Then he feels John's body relaxed against him followed by a sigh.

"I... I thought you're still a dream."  
John whispered softly against his curls. He felt like his body was melting. He felt so tired, that all he wanted to do was to curl up with John on the rooftop. John who was warm and inviting against him. He trailed his lips against John's throat. And John shuddered with him. The tears he had been holding for John started to fall. He could feel John's body shook lightly. Then he was being gripped hard and Sherlock does the same as well. As if they needed the pain of being squeezed tightly together, to remind them that they are both real—alive—breathing. That they have made it.

On that moment, Sherlock's mind palace was healed. He murmured to John the words he had only been keeping inside a particular room that he used to hide himself when he needed to.

By doing so, he felt the grey walls of the hallway, got replaced by the fleur-de-lis wallpaper. The once crumbling palace came back to life. The old wounds and memories became distant. They were still there but they all seemed to be fading away.

All because of a short built of a man with a sandy blonde hair with greying streaks—his flatmate, his bestfriend—that not just saved him from Sebastian Moran, but also to himself.

And this along with the new memories Sherlock would make with John will replace the bad ones.

And there, under the starry sky, there's just the two of them. Sherlock felt John's hands cupping his face—caressing his cheekbones—warm and inviting, like the same words he had said.

Like the kiss, John had gave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short epilogue will follow and then swoosh! The End!


	10. epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'I love you.'
> 
> Eight letters. Three words. It could be a verb, a noun, a part of a phrase. Overused since who-knows-when, expressed in different ways. It could make or break a person. It could ruin a life and could be a reason to end one's life. And lastly it could be someone's motivation to be alive.
> 
> But coming from Sherlock, it was beyond every single definition that could be found and described by someone or made proof by something.

_Five months later..._

John yawned between his hands as he stretched his body. By doing so, the man lying beside him snuggled closer, pulling away the sheets enveloped over their naked bodies. He sighed and smiled as he gathered Sherlock to him.

The change in their relationship never started like this.

When Sherlock was discharged from the hospital some days after their last confrontation with Moran, they never really talked about anything—the embrace, the kiss or where were they going to from there.

But one night, when the two of them are resting. 221b became a witness from the beginning of Sherlock's nightmares. And his screams are enough to wake John in his own bad dream.  
When John ran down to Sherlock's bedroom, he found the man huddled to a dark corner trembling and wet.  
Sherlock had been in shock and John stayed with him. He helped him in the bath, showered him, put decent nightclothes while whispering reassuring words— _'It's me. It's John'—'You're safe now'—_ against Sherlock's _'They're coming—', 'Don't give me to them', 'Don't hurt me.'_  
And when he was able to put Sherlock to sleep, he cried. He felt Sherlock's pain and fear. He held him not muttering a word, only allowing his warmth become Sherlock's beacon into the darkness the man was in.

And that's how they started sleeping together. Just sleeping. Because there are nights where Sherlock just starts to cry. Sherlock's wails could be something a normal person would be annoyed and upset of. But the impact of Sherlock's torture had been unimaginable. There are nightmares where John had to read from his blog of their previous cases to remind Sherlock who he is, what he do and who's with him. Just like what he did when he was nursing Sherlock back before.

And there are nights where he would whisper to Sherlock, when the man was already asleep after mumbling endlessly of the words broken, tainted, pound into pieces. John would whisper how much he missed Sherlock before when he thought he was dead—to remind Sherlock that he's still with him. No matter what.

And for five months, he was there through it all. He never left Sherlock's side when he's needed. His life revolved around clinic hours and looking after Sherlock.

When Sherlock got better, once again he was a storm. The nightmares lessen but the safe haven they have made when sleeping together turned into a brewing tension.

_The night they got together, John came home with a takeaway and found Sherlock sitting on the edge of the bed. He left the takeaway on the kitchen table and went to the bedroom._

_John asked what was wrong, but Sherlock just pulled him by the waist, face buried on his shirt._

_'Sherlock... Did something happened?' He whispered as he caressed Sherlock's curls. Sherlock shook his head slowly and buried his face against him even more. They stayed like that for awhile, John just breathing Sherlock in._

_Then Sherlock spoke again in a firm and unrelenting voice._

_'I love you.'_

_Eight letters. Three words. It could be a verb, a noun, a part of a phrase. Overused since who-knows-when, expressed in different ways. It could make or break a person. It could ruin a life and could be a reason to end one's life. And lastly it could be someone's motivation to be alive._

_But coming from Sherlock, it was beyond every single definition that could be found and described by someone or made proof by something._

_That night John took care of Sherlock in every way that he can. He proved to Sherlock how he treasures those words just as he treasures Sherlock._

**###**

Not all days reflects an overcast of stormy skies. There are a few light days as well. John remembered the day after their last confrontation with Moran. Sherlock had been discharged from the hospital not because he was fully recovered. But because he won't stop pestering the doctors and nurses about their secrets and personal lives, using those facts in blackmailing them for not signing his release papers. The madman kept on insisting that he has his own doctor who was living with him. And finally after that, after giving an advice that the two of them should seek out a therapist, the doctors gave up and signed the documents and they were able to go home.

Some things just never change.

"Stop thinking."  
Sherlock's warm lips grazed his throat while a hand presses over his stomach.

"I'm thinking of you, you git." He closed his eyes and smiled.

Sherlock hummed in response, before asking him, "Are the memories much better than the real thing?"

He chuckled as he felt Sherlock's lips, on his neck nipping down to his collarbone, to his chest then up on his face and ends against his lips.

"No... Of course not." He whispered, eyes still closed. His head felt heady at the sensation of Sherlock against him.

Sherlock slid his legs between his and this time their kisses deepened and their caresses warmed them up.

He felt Sherlock's morning arousal against his own. Usually, when that happens they are already moving away from each other. John understood that they still couldn't get passed kissing for it could trigger Sherlock's panic attack.

So they contented themselves with deep passionate kisses and warm hugs. And it was more than enough for John.

When Sherlock pulled away from biting his lower lip and stared at him, he knew the man was thinking.

He ran a look at Sherlock, long and lean and warm against him. Pale greenish-grey eyes staring at him like he was a microscopic substance under scrutinizing eyes. Lips pink-flushed and glistening against the light from the window. Then Sherlock smiles.

"Mm.. I could get used to that,"  
He said as he plant a kiss on Sherlock's forehead.

The man bit on his lower lip before speaking.  
"John ... I just want to say that what you did before... conniving with my insufferable brother, coming for me, saving me, risking your life, your identity. It was—"  
He never let Sherlock finished for he remembered those words as well.

"Good?" he supplied, grinning.

Sherlock leaned down, kissing his lips slowly as an answer. He held Sherlock's face and kissed back with equal passion.

The sound of his stomach making a sound pulled them away from each other.

Sherlock looked at him giggling, deep sound vibrating through him, laughlines visible in those eyes and soft curls bouncing.

"Breakfast?"

John looked back fondly at the man he would save no matter how many times he needed. The man he knew he would love for the rest of his life.

He smiled, knowingly. "Starving."

  
_ㅁㅁFINㅁㅁ_

_Thank you johnlock community for reading this work and subscribing and for leaving kudos and comments. Lastly, thank you for the hits! *hearts*_

_—allsovacant (Leev)_

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And it is finished. I Thank God for every single work that I am posting. I use His given strength for this. Amen. 
> 
> My heartfelt thanks goes to Cat (SherKat) for her brilliant mind making this prompt and allowing me an opportunity to explore it on my own while pleasing her with the results. Thank you for patience and kind comments. 'Til next time again!
> 
> Thank you to Bluebuell33 and 221carnations (WaywardSpark) for the unwavering kindness and support. And to everyone who have checked this work out, thank you so much!

**Author's Note:**

> Completed: 11/17/18
> 
> See you on my next work! ^^


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